


Imagine: Eavesdropping on your beautiful singing - something you do when you think no one else can hear you - is Castiel’s guiltiest pleasure until he gets caught in the act (ft. Dear Abby, aka Dean Winchester).

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [59]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Guilty Pleasures, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 04:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20886365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Eavesdropping on your beautiful singing - something you do when you think no one else can hear you - is Castiel’s guiltiest pleasure until he gets caught in the act (ft. Dear Abby, aka Dean Winchester).

“Dean-” Castiel pushes the bedroom door inward; widening the sliver of an inch the hunter left it open, he swings it all the way to the gaping limits of the hinges. 

A wall of pepperoni grease, malt hops, and gun oil - none of which he finds alarming or unusual - accosts the angel’s senses; nor does the sight of Dean in boxers and socked feet scrambling to mute the horror film scream of the television whilst simultaneously shoving a half empty pizza box under his pillow and sloshing beer onto the bed sheets while he sits up provoke any special interest beyond the fleeting thought that Dean’s dietary choices, perhaps, are not ideal for his long term cardiovascular health. 

Cas pauses after stating his friends name to allow Dean’s threading pulse a moment to recover from the surprise of the sudden intrusion. Not that Dean should be surprised by the suddenness of the intrusion after nearly a decade of friendship spent unsuccessfully trying to teach the celestial being to knock first. 

The seraph takes Dean’s grumbling around a mouthful of coagulated cheese and irately glistening green eyes as an invitation, if not into the space itself, as one begging expedience to clarify whatever the hell he wants in order to beat a hasty exit. He speaks both without apology and without further delay, “I need to ask you a question.”

Dean swallows hard to dispatch the gummy wad of pizza. He swipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Do you ever knock?”

Cas ignores the query, determining Dean to be employing sarcasm on account of the obviousness of the answer. He moves on to the matter on his mind; namely, you. He overheard you singing in the shower again last night when you couldn’t sleep, which - the singing and the sleeplessness - happens often enough to pique his concern. 

It’s a habit of yours to stretch your voice - a heavenly voice if the angel ever heard one, and he would know - only when you believe no one is listening. “Have you ever heard Y/N sing?”

Dean’s glower wobbles and weakly rolls, his temper consoled and conversely further incensed at the lack of seriousness in the situation. He makes a mental note to have a conversation with his friend about what does and doesn’t warrant the disruption of his preciously rare me time; not - Cas’ idea of urgent often dwelling in the empiric satisfaction of curiosity over the human condition - that it will make any difference.

“Yeah, I’ve caught a couple notes here and there, and-?” Dean’s huff accentuates his annoyance. 

You’re talented - talented and shy. You keep your gift to yourself and Dean, having sacrificed much for family, respects the need to shroud some things in a shield of selfish pleasure to preserve the status quo of inner sanity; for example, a double cheese double meat deluxe deep dish Chicago-style pie from _Gianni’s_ in central Lebanon on a Saturday night.

Cas’ gaze narrows; some of his friend’s snark refracts in the brightness of the blue; he feels Dean knows the unspoken remainder given what he knows regarding the angel’s especially interested affections toward you and is playing a game of chicken. In retrospect, he thinks he should have sought out Sam.

Dean sighs, and concedes to the seraph’s silence if only to be quickly rid of him to restore his peaceful pepperoni and slasher movie solitude. “Listen up - some things, people don’t share with anyone. That’s Y/N with singing. Just leave it be.”

Crease of brow softening in comprehension, Cas thoughtfully eyes the corner of the pizza box peeking from beneath the drape of the pillowcase. “So it’s like you wanting to consume copious amounts of artery clogging cholesterol while lying prone and watching _Hatchet Man_ in private.”

Deeply wounded by the angel’s holier-than-thou tone, and a recent brotherly lecture regarding bacon from Sam, Dean scoffs, “Nobody asked you.”

Cas gets it - your singing, however beautiful, is a subject of taboo unless you choose to share. He’s glad he didn’t go directly to you and cause you the discomfort of a compliment and discomfit of a request to hear more without the barrier of a bathroom door or concrete wall between you.

“And shut the door on your way out,” Dean grouses since the angel continues to linger meditating upon this newfound clarification and the sentiment of disappointment stirring in his chest that it means he cannot compliment you or request the favor of a direct audience to your talent.

“Thank you, Dean.” Stepping backward with a grateful bob of the head, Cas does as directed and strides into the hall.

In as much as Dean has his secret enjoyments, and you your solo performances, Cas, too, considers his routine of straining to catch your murmured melodies a guilty pleasure; those sweet reverberant notes caress his ears irresistibly like a siren’s call and nurture a reverence for your singing in his celestial center such that it seems to hum musically in time, delightfully thrumming through his vessels veins, whenever he chances to perceive your sensuously strung voice.

He thinks it not a guilty pleasure in the traditional sense of the phrase, a saying which suggests he finds profound pleasure in a sound which would not inspire general awe in whomever heard it - quite the opposite, there can be no doubt in his mind, or any other, excepting perhaps your own in not sharing, of your talents; nor is it because he feels any guilt in the actual eavesdropping - one hears much, whether one wants to or no, when blessed with the aptitude of angelic perception; rather, he considers it so only because you yourself, seeming not to trust to your gift in a capacity allowing you to openly share it, and it light of Dean’s elucidation, save your songs for a safety inherent in solitude. 

Your lips part, tongue plucking strings of air in vibrant tone in moments when you believe you have a motel room or the bunker all to yourself. The oxygen belts from your lungs with force to flood the vaulted heights of the ceiling on those welcome weekends with a buffer of many miles between you and the Winchester brothers. 

In the spaces in between, when you aren’t quite as alone as you surmise, Cas cherishes every illicitly captured dulcet lilting of soulful tune.

It’s not that you don’t account for Castiel being around; it’s that he’s so damned _quiet_ padding around the place with divinely dampened footfalls. And it’s not that he’s lurking intentionally long around corners or in shadow before announcing his presence; it’s that he is struck in rapture, determination of direction and intent distracted as he stills to follow a phrase of lyric or two to its mellifluous terminus.

This time though, there’s no sneaking about on the angel’s part to blame.   
Sat at the kitchen table in the semi-dark, flesh of his forehead folded in a neat stack of seriousness over a knotted brow, Cas sifts through Dean’s box of _Krunch Cookie Crunch_ in search of the cheap plastic trinket promised in colorful graphics to be hidden inside - the absence of which the elder Winchester will hold his brother accountable for whenever their latest adventure permits them to return home; needling his friend’s nerves in this manner is a lesser of the angel’s surreptitious and innocent amusements.

He stops his rustling task at the scuffing approach of your slippers and turns toward the threshold. He thought you were asleep when he arrived back and did not deign to wake you to inform you of his late arrival. His features flatten beneath the involuntary feeling of gladness the promise of your presence fosters; the early assemblage of your name rasps in the back of his graveled throat as he prepares to greet you. There, it husks into unspoken oblivion when the first hum of your voice titillates the air.

Oblivious to the celestial company, you step into the kitchen, swiping the light switch as you skip down the two shallow steps and make for the sink to fill a glass of water. Cushioned toes tapping the concrete floor, the kitchen being one of your acoustically favorite rooms in the bunker, the fullness of your unfettered voice echoes off the walls.

Glass brimming, stopping to wet your palette with a sip of the cool drink, you spin on a heel, snap shut your eyes to isolate yourself from the room and the rigors of this life, and settle your spine to the steel skirt of the sink.

Having no contingency plan that doesn’t involve awkwardly breaking for the door, Cas stares, cereal sugar-dusted palm propped to push himself up from the table, wide-eyed and speechless as you continue the tune.

By gradual degrees in sensing a worshipful sort of warmth washing your cheeks with heat, and then the unmistakable scent of the seraph tickling your nose - that uniquely stormy discharge of revving grace skimming his vessel’s skin in lieu of sweat when his adrenaline rises - you become aware of being watched and listened to. 

Tongue skipping mid-note on the back of your teeth, your lashes flare and flash on the seraphim-shaped mass of trench coat seated at the table, his stance somewhere between sitting and standing, and the outline of an apology molding his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I tried-” he stumbles over the words and his feet as he straightens upright and steps into the light and nearer- “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay. I didn’t see you.” You soothe his fumbling; your chin drops to your chest, a bashfully-tinted flush unfurls across your face. “I just don’t usually sing in front of anyone.”

Cas cannot help his blunt honesty in reaction to your confession. “Why not? Your voice is exceptional.” His already bass register lowers as he extends his fingers to loop at your jaw, gently lifting your gaze to his. “_Beautiful_.” He does not add the _‘like you’ _ that naturally links to the accolade in his thoughts; the impact of that bit of unspoken affection stamps his own cheeks to match your blush.

A smile tugs doubtful at your lips. “You think so?”

His attention flicks from your eyes to your mouth, following the minute movement, and back. “Without a doubt.” 

Self-conscious at the magnetism of desire felt to press his pout to yours in physical proclamation of his praise, his fingers falter from your chin and the tenderly glossed blues revolve to study the span of inches set between your beating hearts. 

You feel it too, have felt a sentiment stronger than friendship solidifying between you for a while. The seams of your body tremble to contain a soul bursting in song at the suggestion of something more. “I could, I mean, if you wanted me to - if you’d like it-”

“Yes.” The bright shine of his eyes spill unfettered happiness to crinkle the skin surrounding them before the essence of a smile spreads to lighten his entire aspect.

The seraph’s smile - it’s purity, and the adoration reflecting the radiant potential of you as the source of his joyful feelings - is all the ovation your heart needs.


End file.
